Everlasting Memories
by ashley.hillson2012
Summary: Second Installment from Comfort In His Arms. JohnLock fluff/smut. John gets severely injured in the war and loses his memory. Sherlock has to deal with John not remembering anything about him, or the time they spent together. John has to struggle to understand all the things around him that are seemingly new to him. Maybe together he'll start to remember again.
1. Amnesia

**Really long chapter with some pretty hard feels. Not sorry**

* * *

Sherlock had received hundreds of letters from John. Each one as happy and hopeful as the last. He had written a hundred letters in response, but had sent not a single one. All he ever sent to John was an address change, which occurred only a total of three times. Regardless, they kept coming each week.

The one letter he received informing him that John was to be sent off on leave by the end of the month had come too late and Sherlock hadn't been able to make seeing him one last time. To his despair, he had been busy and had forgotten about the mail for two weeks and opened it a mere day late.

He had, though, gone to visit the address the letters had been coming from and found a very nice flat where the landlord allowed Sherlock, with the help of a pick-pocketed police ID, into the flat and he simply sat in one of the chairs. John had always been a simple man and there was no evidence John had a lover. There was a surprisingly large space on his writing desk cleared off and small notes written on a few papers scattered around the desk and the small space atop.

The notes held what appeared to be reminders of events. Sherlock remembered reading each one inside the notes. Each event had been scribbled quickly by John and he had obviously taken time and effort to write each note.

Feeling longing at the boy he'd fallen in love with, Sherlock had stayed the night and slept it John's bed, smelling the boy for the first time in years. Upon awakening, he straightened anything he'd rustled and he left quietly.

Thankfully, for Sherlock's sanity, John wrote while he was away. The letters were vague and small and came about once a month now, but it was enough to satisfy Sherlock's nervousness towards John's health.

Until a few months passed and not one letter came.

John felt the uneven ground perfectly under his boots. He had received orders to move from one tent to the other. A soldier was in need of greater attention in the tent towards the end of the medical encampment. The sounds of a ruckus unfolding traveled through the wind. A loud, sharp shout came a scant second before the gunshots started.

Ducking and running, John burst through the opening of the nearest tent. Two men lay on the beds, both throats sliced open. Shocked, John stumbled backwards, leaving the tent behind. The three tents he checked after that had few men or women in each but all were killed silently. He ran to the next tent but before he could enter it, he heard a cry for help. Spinning on his heel, he ran out from between the tents and into the open area that was part of the desert. Twenty feet from the medical camp lay the bigger, heavier equipped camp for the soldiers.

The cry for help, as well as the others that had traveled from that direction and John felt he'd do more there than the seemingly empty tents that made up the medical camp. Looking briefly over his shoulder, he saw two men chasing after him, one raising a gun. He pulled his own weapon up and spun to face the two chasing him. It was obvious they were part of the raid.

Before the gun was fully up in his hands, John heard a loud pop and pain exploded in his shoulder. He felt blackness curl in his stomach as he fell backwards, the momentum of his turn making it hard to find a footing and he saw the ground racing up to him.

The ground bit into him rough but he managed to roll onto his good shoulder and rise up on an elbow. The pain was immense but he tried rising, tried getting up to fend off the attackers. By this time, one of them had run up to him and with the butt of his gun struck John hard upon the temple. John's body whipped around and he fell to the ground.

As his vision slipped quickly into darkness, John envisioned Sherlock smiling at him. The crooked, goofy smile that only John could ever work out of him and the words that kept him going.

_"I will miss you."_

John woke up to a bright light. A steady beeping started to agitate his migraine and he groaned, trying to move from teh light. A female voice gently asked him to be still. John tried his best but he couldn't stand the light, he kept squeezing his eyes shut.

"Does your head hurt?"

Throat dry but he figured he could manage speaking, John croaked out, "yeah." This action threw him into a fit of coughing that escalated his migraine. A heavy hand rose halfway to his head before the woman pushed it back down. By now, his eyes were used to the light and he was looking at her, seeing her. She had shoulder-length red hair, a peppering of freckles danced across her cheeks and nose. The eyes she put on him were young but at the same time aged with all she'd seen working in the hospital.

Stilling, John realized he was in a hospital.

"I'm sick?" He asked, trying to sit up. The woman, he figured she was a nurse, panicked and tried pushing him back down by the shoulders. "Why am I here? Why am I in a hospital!"

"Please lie down! You're not well." She finally muscled him enough to be tired so he stopped trying to get up. Surprised, he found himself rather winded. "I can explain if you just calm down." She assured him and he nodded once, gently.

She checked his vitals and he patiently waited. Right before she was to leave, she leaned down close to his face so their eyes were level.

"You've been awake on and off about a week. Your condition was severe. You're in the hospital because you were shot. Do you remember?"

John frowned and realized he was particularly numb and he ached more where he did feel then usual. But he couldn't remember how it happened.

"I don't know. I don't remember what happened." She eyed him and smiled softly.

"You took a bump to the head as well. Rather viscous, cut your head open. We'll be able to give you more information once you're more stable."

"I'm perfectly stable right now, please, just tell me. How bad is the gunshot? How bad is my head? Do I have amnesia? Where am I?"

"Sir, please. I know how it seems to you but I assure you that you were awake yesterday and demanded the same things. We need you to be more stable and focus on you getting healthier." With this, she stood straight and walked out of the room. John couldn't argue with her, since he didn't remember at all getting up previously. He was nearly certain he had amnesia but does knowing mean it might not be true? He was tremendously confused.

Over the next two weeks, John was awake normally, slept fitfully with nightmares of things he couldn't remember once he woke. The nurses and doctors were optimistic about his recovery since he woke up every day and was up and about most of the time they allowed. They revealed small snippets of information to him over that time.

He was not in London. He had been stationed in Afghanistan and was in a main hospital far from the fighting, but still in the country. If his condition stays the same or even gets better, he was to be scheduled to head back to the United Kingdoms. His shoulder wound had been infected and they'd been sure he was a goner for at least three days. As well, his head wound healed just fine but he did have amnesia.

One of the days, John sat down with a man who'd been at the camp and received a grazed bullet on his back, missing the spine somehow, and talked about the day. Apparently John was struck unconscious just as the group two miles down had shown up, answering the distress call that had been sent and his life had been saved by the troops racing in. A minute or less earlier and he'd have been killed.

John, of course, didn't remember any of this. He told his new friend this, Ryan, and the man understood. Still, when John asked him to continue, John spoke at length for many days about the day, or other days that were not so horrible.

One day, laying in bed, a man in an army uniform came in and presented John with the knowledge that he was to be sent to London after an evaluation scheduled tomorrow, his flight leaving two days afterwards. John was so happy he told Ryan, who was given the same information, and the two men talked of home.

"So you remember home, then?" Ryan asked calmly after an hour or so of speaking with John.

"I do, bits and pieces. Not whole things but I can remember school. I remember signing up for the army-daft idea that was." The two men laughed and John played his memory loss off like the shrug of a shoulder.

During the evaluation John proved he could stand and walk, albeit a bit wobbly, with the help of a cane. His headache was low enough to disperse every now and then and he never blacked out from pain. They inspected his shoulder which was blossoming into a nice scar. The amnesia was not a problem, the memories would either come back or they wouldn't.

As he received a pass, John sat back in the wheelchair provided to him and he smiled thankfully. He was glad to be going home. He conversed with Ryan who was to go home as well, his back having just a scar and his muscles stitching back together just fine.

John woke screaming, as usual. Only this time, he heard loud voices outside his room. He stopped his screaming the moment he realized it was his own and that he was safe in the hospital, though he still had no idea what he dreamt. Rising to a sitting position, John readied himself to get out of bed, damn the early hour.

Just as he grabbed for his cane, the door burst open and a tall man threw himself inside. His hair was dark, ruffled and uncontrolled. His skin was pale enough to seem almost a soft luminescent in the darkness of the hospital room. John frowned at the look on the mans face when he spotted John in the bed, something close to glee but then again it was hard to tell with the exhaustion lining the mans features.

Three nurses and a doctor burst into the room behind him, all exclaiming that visiting hours were far from over and he couldn't be in here, as well as to let John sleep.

"He's awake, you insolent swines! Let me see him!" The tall man shouted at them.

"No need to be so angry," John called out and they all paused. The mystery man smiled at John warmly and John got a strange feeling crawl up his spine. "He can come in if it's so important."

The doctor and nurses, though they weren't supposed to, backed out of the room and closed the door. The tall man walked up to John with a large smile, reaching out for him and grabbing John's hands.

"Mycroft wouldn't let me come until you were labeled fit for travel. He wants me to bring you home. Well, to our home." John frowned and the tall man seemed confused at the expression. "Ah, well, you don't have to. You can go see Harry if you want, or your parents. I'm sure they're running themselves ragged worrying for you."

"I bet, yeah." John said calmly, though he felt a trace of worry. He'd let the man grab his hands but suddenly he felt a bit anxious. Was this man family? He couldn't remember. Who was Mycroft?

"Are you feeling well?" The man said suddenly and John was startled.

"Yes, I mean, considering."

"Of course. How would you like to go home? I was flown in by Mycroft's personal plane. He didn't want to come with. Too much hospital for him, apparently."

"Uh, sure." The two men looked at one another a moment before the tall man realized there was something very wrong.

"John are you... do I make you uncomfortable? I know I never wrote and we haven't seen one another in a really long time. But when Mycroft mentioned you were hurt I knew I couldn't stay away."

"Oh." John licked his lips and realized he couldn't keep quiet any longer. The man would learn soon enough and it was better than way. "Listen, um, I have to tell you something. I have no idea who you are."

The man stared blankly a moment before ripping his hands from John's touch. Oddly enough, John felt an ache in his chest at the loss. The man didn't pause and straightened fully in his chair.

"John, don't be silly. I'm Sherlock."

John shook his head and the man, Sherlock, stood stiffly.

"I don't know that name."

"John..." The look of absolute devastation about pushed the ache in John's chest to a sharp pain.

"I'm sorry."


	2. Returning Home (yes it's 221 B)

John told Ryan he would be returning home with a man named Sherlock who apparently knew him very well.

"That's wonderful though. He can help with your memory." Ryan patted John on the shoulder, giving him a brief hug before leaving his address and number with John. "Probably don't remember your own, so have this if you ever want to visit or talk."

With that, John rejoined Sherlock and Ryan went to catch his own flight.

John didn't use the wheelchair anymore and getting onto the plane, which suspiciously looked government official, was slow going. Sherlock stayed behind John, uncomplaining and offering silent encouragement.

On the ride home, John dozed and Sherlock was fitful. He kept texting Mycroft questions and Mycroft was infuriatingly calm about the interruptions, though Sherlock knew the man was busy.

I need answers. SH

You will get them. MH

NOW! SH

Patience, brother mine. MH

John has no memory of me. How am I to deal with this? SH

We'll figure it out when you both get back. MH

Where will he go? He doesn't remember his flat. He would not agree to mine. SH

Obviously take him to his. MH

It will help try to stir memories. SH

Of course. I will have everything ready when you land. MH

We need to talk. SH

I will set up a date and time to bring you to my office. Will John be with you? MH

I have things I need to know. SH

Sherlock looked to his watch. They were less than four hours into the flight and Mycroft was taking longer than usual to respond. After no response for half an hour, Sherlock tossed the phone away with a flustered noise and rose, pacing the floor of the open cabin. John peeked out, sleepy-eyed, from the doorway to the bedroom.

"Everything all right in here?" John inquired just as sleepily in a deeper voice than usual. Sherlock stared at him, wishing John had never left but knowing he could change absolutely nothing. It was physically painful to have to start from scratch on something Sherlock knew had taken a long time to get where it had been.

"Everything is fine. Did you get enough sleep?" Even though John looked rather exhausted, Sherlock knew that was no indicator. John had looked this way ever since Sherlock had shown up at the hospital.

"Yeah. Uh. I have to ask, is this a government plane? I've never been on anything so fancy. You said your brother lent it to you."

"Yes, he runs part of the government."

"Oh. As well, where are we, um, going?" He scratched his chin, leaning against the doorway. Sherlock held back the urge to go to him, hug him, touch him. It was very painful to stand still, hands clasped behind his back so tight he felt a bite from his nails into his flesh.

"We're taking you home. To your flat."

"I have a flat?"

"Yes, apparently you moved there after your studies for medical help in the war. The government kept the flat funded for you." Sherlock eyed John, wondering how exactly to treat amnesia patients. Were you to let them figure things out on their own of were you to tell them everything? Sherlock knew he felt uncomfortable even with the thought of having to tell John that they had been a thing. Especially if memories of John's father were still there, still prominent. Sherlock didn't want to chance driving John away.

"What of my parents?" John gripped his cane tightly in one hand and shuffled over to one of the comfy chairs. He passed close to Sherlock and the man stopped breathing, nearly terrified he would smell John and lose his control. As John sat, Sherlock shifted his stance and put himself almost the whole width of the plane from John. The man didn't seem to notice.

"Mycroft informed me that they were made aware of your departure from Afghanistan and will be at your flat the day after you return home, in order to give you space to breath."

"Your brother, yeah?"

"Yes."

"I can tell you two don't get along." Sherlock was stunned at this but couldn't help realize that it was correct.

"No. He owed me a favor or two and I asked him to let me come get you."

John stayed quiet after this remark, his eyes burrowing into Sherlock. It was possibly the most uncomfortable a person had ever made Sherlock feel. After a few grueling minutes of being sized up, Sherlock couldn't take it anymore and he started heading for the bedroom.

"If you've finished with the bedroom, I'll try to sleep some of the hours away. Make yourself comfortable, everything on this plane is Mycroft's so you can burn it for all I care." Sherlock slipped into the bedroom and closed the door. Without giving a second thought, he slipped from his clothes, except for his boxer pants, and burrowed into the bed sheets.

Immediately the smell of John engulfed him and he realized how bad of an idea this had been. Sure, sleeping would throw more of the flight away and Sherlock desperately needed to be off keeping busy, but now he wanted to go cuddle John. A warmth from his body still clung to the bed and it was almost like John was there with Sherlock.

Forcing himself into sleep, Sherlock convinced himself that it wouldn't always be so hard.

The landing was safe and the drive in a fancy black car was awkward as John and Sherlock shared close space in the back seat as the driver took them to the flat. John didn't seem nervous, but rather curious as the city of London slipped by the windows.

At the flat, John made his way up the five stairs to the door. Sherlock handed John a key and they slipped into the building.

"I like it. At least." John commented as they went into the hallway.

"B is upstairs." Sherlock murmured, motioning towards the staircase and John visibly paled. Sherlock practically choked trying not to tell John not to worry, he'd carry him.

John was a soldier, and stubborn to boot. This is why Sherlock was not surprised when, halfway up the stairs, John dropped to his knees. He'd pushed himself too hard and was exhausted. Sherlock grabbed John before he could fall any further and pulled him close. John's heavy, ragged breathing as well as the rapid movement of his chest slowed.

Sherlock had his head nestled into John's crevice, nose resting along his clavicle. One arm was wrapped around the front of John's shoulder, the other around his waist. John had not moved, not even stiffened, when Sherlock had grabbed a hold of him. As time slipped by and his body relaxed and his breathing became normal, he put a hand on Sherlock's arm around his shoulders. The other arm he laid upon Sherlock's around John's waist.

It was a blissful feeling, Sherlock had to admit. He hadn't touched John in years and being next to him suddenly, having been worried when the letters had stopped and Mycroft wouldn't tell him anything until he'd practically stormed Mycroft's work building, was overwhelming. The emotions were beyond Sherlock's usual parameters.

"I can go up now." John practically whispered, his head turning ever so slightly into Sherlock's. Sherlock let him go, keeping a hand on his back as he stood up to his feet, but removing it as John started back up the stairs.

Once up there, John unlocked the door that had a large "B" on it and inside was a fairly bare, decent apartment. The wallpaper was garish but John's first impression was feeling homely.

"I know this place. A bit. I don't remember anything really about it but it feels like home." Remarked John, going over to a chair he felt fond of. It was the only one in the flat.

"That's good. I am not certain how to get your memory back but feeling comfortable is a first step, maybe." Sherlock stood awkwardly and John looked around, trying to take in everything. It was hard for Sherlock to grasp regular people and their simple minds, but to try and grasp the concept that John was one so intelligent and now has amnesia was nearly impossible.

When John had left for college, Sherlock hadn't said it aloud but he figured the two of them may never see one another again. When John had, without fail, kept in touch and let Sherlock know every piece of his life, it had been hard to try and forget the boy. When the letters had stopped, like he figured they eventually would, he'd panicked and called Mycroft. Unconcerned with a boy he'd met only once and rarely heard of from Sherlock years ago, Mycroft hadn't fueled Sherlock's emotions. But when Sherlock had called a second time, two months later, Mycroft had investigated and found that a Dr. Watson had been injured a week prior. The condition he was in was unstable and unsure, Mycroft went so far as to force Sherlock in a jail cell to keep the man jumping country. When he'd signed for John to come home, he promised Sherlock that he'd be the one to bring him back.

No one had said anything about his amnesia, though Sherlock had been told about the gunshot and that he'd been hit in the head.

Sherlock looked at John, his pondering only having lasted maybe five seconds total. The man was twisting to sit in the chair.

"I'll get you some tea." Sherlock said, practically throwing himself into the kitchen. John didn't look up, even when he finally sat, a hand running down the leather arm of the chair.

As Sherlock made tea, no sugar but definitely milk(Mycroft had promised to stock up the kitchen with at least some fresh food), he wondered again for the millionth time what happened to John. Why had the letters stopped at least two months before the accident? Sherlock had grown so used to know each piece of John's life through the letters that the months he knew nothing about drove him into fits.

John took the cup of tea, eyeing it with a mixture of surprise and confusion that only worsened when he sipped.

"You know exactly how I like my tea." John commented, setting the cup on the coffee table. Sherlock took the lengthy stare from John a bit easier than before, even though he was still standing in the middle of the room.

"I'm sure you have some questions." Sherlock finally threw the open-ended conversation starter onto the table. He knew he'd regret it, but it had to be done.

"Of course. But, ah, please find yourself a place to sit." John waited patiently while Sherlock collected some spare pillows from a hall closet and sat atop them on the opposite side of the room.

"Right then, we'll start with the basic. Who are you?"


	3. Answers, But Not Enough

**I AM SO SORRY I FOUND THIS CHAPTER AND FOUND I HADN'T POSTED IT PLEASE FORGIVE ME**

The feeling of Sherlock's arms around him had been unexpectedly delicious. John wasn't sure what it meant, but he was sure he liked it. His father, though, wouldn't approve. Not knowing where that thought came from, John shrugged it off for later and had simply felt the moment. Sherlock's head resting upon him, against his head, had pooled heat into his body. Sadly, he was getting stiff on the stairs and had to end it.

For possibly the millionth time, John wondered exactly what relationship they had. If it had been romantic, wouldn't Sherlock had just come out with it? If it was just friends, there was obviously some boundary rules Sherlock needed to know. Then again, why did Sherlock fly personally to Afghanistan, having asked his brother whom he apparently hates for a favor, for just a friend? The pieces of this particular puzzle weren't adding up.

If his body's response to Sherlock being close was any give-away, he most likely didn't enjoy the friend status. Yet John got the strong feeling that Sherlock wasn't very easy to talk to in general, let alone about feelings.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock said in answer to John's previous question. "My brother is Mycroft, you have met him but once and briefly. You and I went to school together. We didn't exactly get along. I wasn't very popular."

"I did football."

"Yes. You remember that?"

"A small bit. No faces or much else but I do remember feeling the uniform. I do remember the ball, though, in my hands." John raised his hands up, seeing them gloved in his memory, the ball held tight. "It wasn't during a game or practice, I was just holding it." His voice had grown soft. In his head, a headache grew.

"We don't have to keep going." Sherlock remarked and John opened his eyes. There was a small trace amount of concern on Sherlock's face.

"I'm fine. I'll be more specific about my question. I don't think you got what I was asking."

"I know what you were asking." Sherlock said softly, not breaking eye contact.

"Why didn't you answer?"

"It's hard to explain what I am to you." Sherlock looked at the floor. It didn't suit him to look so dejected.

They sat in silence a minute, John letting Sherlock have some time to decide what to say. There was a large part of John that honestly believed Sherlock wouldn't continue the conversation, even if pushed.

Before either of them could advance the conversation, Sherlock's phone rang.

"I have to get this." Sherlock mumbled, rising and leaving the room. John sighed the moment he was gone and picked up the tea. He drank it, even though it was cool. It tasted amazing. Better than the weird "tea" in Afghanistan.

It wasn't long, only maybe a minute after John had finished the tea, that Sherlock wandered back in. The moment he came back into view, his phone buzzed. Frowning, he looked at it and the frown turned into a scowl.

Answering, he yelled, "I'm busy Lestrade, do it yourself for once!" Then hung up, tossing the phone away. John listened to it clatter about before settling down, all the while watching Sherlock straighten his clothes and sit back down.

"I would prefer you to remember me rather than me tell you. There's a large chance, according to Mycroft, that I perceived our... relationship differently then you did." Sherlock looked like he'd tasted a rather nasty flavour at the word "relationship" and John found it entertaining. Typical Sherlock, not to act like he was so human.

John didn't move an inch when he realized that Sherlock normally didn't deal with emotions. It was a memory of an epiphany that didn't hold any type of emotion to it. His face nor body language could possibly have given away that he remembered something. John now knew for sure that he had known Sherlock, but he still had no idea what they meant to each other.

"I have a meeting with Mycroft tomorrow, fairly early. Your parents will be over to visit, I am sure they worry about you." Sherlock just kept talking, very obviously not having caught John's memory moment. "I will stay as late as you want. Or as little."

"Hold on," John raised his hands and Sherlock paused, his eyes, which John suddenly found very mesmerizing, locked upon John with worry as if he'd said something to offend. Why that was a reaction for Sherlock, John couldn't say. "Where are you going to sleep?"

A look of utter, dumbfounded surprise landed on Sherlock's face and it was so out of place that John couldn't help but smirk.

"I have a flat..." Sherlock started to say but stopped when John felt his face fall. Of course Sherlock had a flat.

"Yes, of course."

"John, if you feel unsure about staying alone, I will stay. You need not ask, just say yes." Sherlock eyed John, almost hopefully. John smiled and wondered how Sherlock had known what he'd been thinking.

"Yes."


	4. Visiting Parents

**My Sherlock is absolute shite. I will apologize for him. Promise to do better in future chapters.**

**Also, short chapter. No apologies for you.**

It took only about one total hour for Mycroft to get a couch into the apartment. What neither Holmes brother said was that the couch was from Sherlock's own flat. Sherlock could tell John was impressed, but just sat in his chair even as darkness fell and the movers in formal wear had long gone as well as a smug-looking Mycroft.

Sherlock had ignored every remark his brother had made about how John looked, only telling Mycroft that he owed him a favour this time. Mycroft hadn't responded but Sherlock knew that smug, pleased look. It would come back to haunt him, he knew it.

John told Sherlock where to find an extra blanket and pillow. John rose and showered, Sherlock hovering outside the door in case John needed anything. When the shower was done, he leaned heavily on Sherlock as they walked to his bedroom. His breathing was ragged.

"I don't know why I'm so tired." John mumbled as Sherlock pulled the covers back and sat the man down.

"The doctors said your body wasn't fully healed. You need a lot of rest."

"And I suppose," John smirked tiredly, a chuckle vibrating his chest, "you're going to be taking care of me?"

Sherlock, face emotionless, said, "if I have to, I'll stay as long as needed. Just remember I will be gone before your parents get here." He rose and left the room, telling John to ask if he needed anything.

John sat in his room and fought sleep most of the night, slipping in and out of consciousnesses. He tried hard to remember the room, the flat, the street he lived on. He tried to remember how he got injured, what he was doing, how he'd gotten there. He tried remembering anything about his parents aside from the obvious feeling of home that was brought on when they were mentioned. But mostly, he tried remembering who Sherlock was and why the man seemed almost desperate to keep John safe without there being a relationship between them. His brother, Mycroft, had slipped a few comments at him about how he looked rather well and grown, how Sherlock was behaving rather oddly, as well as how the apartment matched him well. What any of it meant, John had no idea. He didn't trust that look on the mans' face though, for some reason.

Even though he knew virtually nothing about this man named Sherlock, John had a gut feeling that the man meant every word he set. Not only that, but that the man would stop at nothing to make sure John got better. The conclusions John drew about Sherlock seemed not only spot-on, but comforting.

Sherlock, just as promised, left before John's parents arrived. He'd been there to see John safe while dressing, hovering outside the bedroom door. He'd made breakfast-edible is not a word John would describe the food-but the tea was wonderful. John received a call his parents were on the way and Sherlock had all but ran out the door, threads of dignity clinging to him.

John couldn't help but notice how there was not a trace of Sherlock, or any evidence he'd slept over, about the flat. The man was as tidy as a ghost.

His parents came in with a flourish, hugs and kisses from his mother and distant half-meant smiled from his father. For the next few hours, he prayed they would leave him alone so he could tell Sherlock to come back. It was an odd feeling, desiring a man's company over his own family. But it was there none the less.

"Tell me, now, do they have them homo people in the war yet?" His father commented, the smell of alcohol more potent on him then John could remember on anyone he'd seen-or smelt-since the hospital. John realized very quickly why he felt uncomfortable, even as his mother looked away in almost shame.

"I assume so, but that's not really important to the..."

"Of course it is! I'd never fight next to one of them." His father interrupted, angry. "Deserve to be shot just like them others." John didn't feel the same but he figured fighting would do no good.

"Think of Harry, love..." His mother encouraged but that just sent the man into a rage about how he had no daughter, there was no room for such filth in his life.

John found out his sister was gay right then. Almost at the same time he realized he didn't care. The rest of the morning and day consisted of John trying to not say anything to offend his father while trying to talk openly with his mother.

Somewhere in the conversations, John realized that there might be a connection to the events that had circled him all day. Sherlock refused to define their relationship and was acting overly protective of John's health. John's father was a very open homophobic. There was absolutely no telltale signs of Sherlock in the flat, nor did it seem that either parent knew Sherlock-or anyone for that matter-had gone to get him and bring him back. They didn't ask if anyone was here helping him, nor did they make any comment if they knew of Sherlock's existence. John was almost 100% sure that his father would make rude comments about a man being in the flat, staying over.

The day promised to drag on and on, on and on.

At some point, John made an excuse of being tired and they agreed to let him sleep, rest. They told him they'd be back in the morning but that would have to be it because his father had work to return to the next day. Once they were gone, John found himself even more exhausted than he realized.

Barely able to reach his phone, his shoulder aching and a migraine pounding his head, John didn't realize who he was texting.

Help please. JW

On the other side of London, Mycroft felt his phone buzz and told Sherlock to wait just a moment. When he checked his phone and saw the message, he didn't know what to immediately draw from it. Why had Sherlock not received the text, or more importantly, why did John need help?

Mycroft puzzled over it, setting his phone down and urging Sherlock to continue.


	5. Distress Call (text)

Sherlock arrived at his brothers dwelling shortly after he left John's flat. Together, the brothers went to Sherlock's flat and Mycroft waited patiently as his little brother packed a suitcase.

"He asked you to stay longer?"

"Even a single night requires clothes. I need more than the sleep wear you handed me last night."

"How is he doing?

"Fine. Not like you really care."

"Should we wait until we get back to my place or are you going to just start demanding answers about how to fix this?"

"I don't know how to deal with amnesia patients."

"It's not my area either, brother."

"You could have mentioned he had amnesia!" Sherlock exploded, throwing a once well folded shirt at the suitcase. Mycroft made no facial expression.

"It was not an important detail."

"It's the most important detail."

"Do you love him less?"

"No, I..." Sherlock paused, realizing that it was true. John was still the same man, kind and caring and passionate. "We have to start all over."

"Love doesn't make anything easy, Sherlock. If his memories come back, he will remember you. If they don't, well, he seems taken by you already. He hasn't kicked you out of the flat. He encouraged you to stay."

"Still a bloody arse thing to do."

"I see none of that angst he had when you were in school. Be thankful he's a grown man now. None of that nonsense."

"His father could turn the tide."

"If his father becomes a problem, I'll have him removed." Mycroft pulled a glove off his hand, his face expressionless. Sherlock was fighting hard to control his shock. Why would Mycroft even suggest, even offer such a thing? What was it to him if Sherlock was happy?

The brothers made little talk as they were driven towards Mycroft's home. Half way, he received a call and told the driver to take them to his office instead. Sherlock made no comment, and had none to give, to this change. Once in the office, Mycroft settled behind the desk and busied himself with work all the while urging Sherlock onward.

"It's difficult to admit I'm very helpless with John."

"I'm sure it is. That's why I called in a favor." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking to the door as Mycroft paged someone to come in. A woman with long, red hair and glasses came in, arms holding a few notebooks as well as a backpack. She couldn't have been older than 19. She sat in the chair directly beside Sherlock, seemingly unfazed by his demeanor.

"Hello, Felicia, this is Sherlock Holmes, the man I spoke to you about."

Her gaze, a liquid green, landed on him. It was very unusual that anyone made him feel remotely uncomfortable, but her gaze did just that.

"I hear you're having problems with an associate."

"He's my friend." There was a pause before she smiled coldly.

"Friend. Of course. He has amnesia. Afghanistan, correct?"

"Yes. He remembers bits and pieces but I'm unsure how to... help him."

"Yes. I have gathered the information you will need." She handed him two of the notebooks. The hand writing in them was neat, precise, and seemingly non female. Yet Sherlock knew it was her hand writing. "I hope I don't have to go over the writing."

"No." Sherlock was beginning to become irritated at the young girl. She obviously thought herself above him. If John wasn't so important and first priority, he would have considered teaching her exactly how much more intelligent he was.

Since John was, in fact, more important than proving his intellect to a lowly teen, Sherlock instead flipped the first notebook open. There were many possibilities for head trauma, many possible ways to get his memory back. It was underlined three precise times that he never, ever force the memories in any way shape or form. This included telling John specific things in life.

Sherlock read, "The possibility that a memory never fully comes back even if all other memory does, simply because they were told it was a certain way. For example: If their favorite color is blue but they are told it is red, if all other memory comes back but they believed you upon the favorite color, they will almost always prefer red." That part was simple enough to read and understand. What Sherlock found to be irate, however, was not founded out of incapability of understanding.

"Although through relationship status, new memories that are similar to the old ones are acceptable unless the relationship was ended by the one who received head trauma. The relationship on-goings beforehand should be kept at least somewhat a secret, such as a particular date or time. The sentence, 'We've gone to the carnival dozens of times before,' is unhealthy."

Sherlock looked up at his brother. "Is it really necessary to assume John and I are a relationship?"

"I don't assume anything, brother dear, I merely observe."

"It would be healthy if we all met up once a week, as needed, until John's full situation is understood." Felicia slipped into the conversation, stopping Sherlock's retort at the roots. "Or I can simply meet up with Sherlock and discuss any questions or concerns."

"You think this girl is skilled enough to be the head care-taker of John? What credentials could she have aside from parents' money?" Sherlock snapped out. She didn't seem the least bit surprised or taken back.

"About as much as you ridding on our parents' money throughout your education. She is top in her class and I respect her enough to have her on my payroll. She is appointed head of John's care-taking by me. I will gladly take your word into consideration if you feel another person is more capable..."

"I am." Sherlock interrupted and Mycroft sighed.

"I know you think it so, Sherlock, but you are emotionally invested and am therefore unable to make cold calculations the likes of which are necessary. I am simply looking out for John's health."

"You don't fool me, Mycroft. His life isn't a toy for you."

"I am well aware. I assure you." The brothers stared each other down for a few moments before Felicia cleared her throat rather haughtily.

"Let's get back to the papers, shall we? I have much to do and I would like you to read through the notes for any questions you may have."

Mycroft's phone buzzed to life at this moment. He threw on his charming smile and told Sherlock he would be but a moment.

_Help please. JW_

Frowning, Mycroft put his phone back in his pocket. He thought about the message for one split second before joining in on the rather heated argument Sherlock started with Felicia about family support and how John's family isn't supportive enough to keep a jelly bean off the floor.

The question now was, how to deal with the text message that may or may not have been for Mycroft, and what to do about it.


	6. Saviour

Sherlock was about halfway done with a lengthy paragraph describing how it's okay to give favorite foods not as often, just try to keep to the diet beforehand or let him choose, when Mycroft walked around his desk and dropped his phone on the papers in front of him.

What the phone said at first didn't register. Why would this be on Mycroft's phone?

"Tell me, John can become easily lethargic at any given moment." Sherlock said calmly, looking up from the phone to Felicia. "It is written, I assume, but give me the quick version of any major danger this lethargy can create."

"One moment he can be fine. The next he can be barely able to keep his head from hitting the floor. For hours. It's possible that the head trauma has a small blockage of reaction time to the rest of his body as a protection. He may stay away for four days and not feel tired a single moment but he could be walking across the street and pass out before he starts falling."

Sherlock stood quickly and handed Mycroft's phone back.

"If the text wasn't sent from John's address, text me where he is." With that and a swish of his coat, Sherlock left the office.

John tried as hard as he could to stay awake. He had just been fine. It was only a tiny bit of tired. Why was he so tired? His thoughts were slipping from him, his body chilly. Where was he? Last thing he remembered was texting Sherlock for help. Where was that man anyway?

The floor was cold. It didn't feel like carpet. He remembered glimpses of a cabinet, table. The kitchen. That wasn't far from the door, he must have been more tired than he thought. Somehow he knew Sherlock would be worried. How long had it been since he sent that text? It seemed both seconds and hours ago.

There was a loud, deep thump that John felt through his body. He realized with a groan that he was lying on his arm.

"John!" Someone yelled out, the voice still too far, too hazy to know. There were a lot of quick, tiny thumps to follow. "John!" The front door flew open. John couldn't turn his head to see but he knew it was Sherlock. "John," the man breathed as he closed the door and rushed forward. He didn't remove a single item from his person as he checked over John, seeing if any further damage was done. Once determined he was fine, albeit sore and tired, Sherlock shoved John onto his back.

"'lo," John mumbled out, trying as hard as he could to focus on Sherlock but his head throbbed with the beat of his heart. Sherlock had a wild look in his eyes, his hair windblown. He was breathing hard, sitting with his knees up and arms resting upon them. John didn't know what came over him but he giggled a tiny bit.

"Are you in pain?"

"'ub," John managed but not enough to say "numb," successfully drawing Sherlock's eyebrows down into confusion.

"How about if I get you up and into your bed and you scream or groan, I'll give you pain meds?" John smiled in response and Sherlock helped the man to his feet. Together they walked crookedly, John still half asleep.

Sherlock laid him down gently, not a single cry of pain or uncomfortable groan having come from John. He pulled up the covers and brushed hair from his forehead. John was still somewhat conscious when Sherlock's hand turned from his brow to his cheek, fingers gently caressing the skin. John was only somewhat surprised when he felt Sherlock's lips against his opposite cheek. What did surprise him was the sudden and violent desire to want to be awake so he could kiss Sherlock back.

Sleep stole him from the opportunity and his last thought was he hoped if he never remembered anything the rest of his life, to remember the feeling Sherlock's kiss had given him.

John remembered everything, if not a bit fuzzy. What he regretted was the timing was now gone. Sherlock made tea, realizing breakfast was not going to happen, made John's bed and hovered for an hour or so before he informed John that he had a few things to pick up.

"Do you know how long you want me to stay for?" Sherlock inquired but John didn't want to answer. What was between them still hadn't been answered but it seemed strange to have an unknown man in the house regardless that they had a past.

"I'm not sure. We could try until the end of the week?"

"Alright. I will be back. Let me know if you need anything." Sherlock was at the door when he turned and locked eyes with John. "Do not scare me again."

With that half anguished plea, Sherlock seemed to fly out of the apartment. John cleared his throat, sitting on the couch and fiddling with his fingers. How was he ever to talk to Sherlock without the man hovering or being a busy-body? There was always the rest of the week.

John's parents showed up again and he had forgotten they were coming. Thankfully, they had brought lunch. The day was basically the same as yesterday only John took note of how much he was exerting and the exact moment he felt tired, he told his parents he needed to sleep.

When they'd gone, promising to write or at least call, John texted Sherlock that the flat was clear. He frowned when he noticed no message had been sent either last night or any other time to Sherlock. Going to his messages he found the right one and stared at Mycroft's name. In his phone, they were both listed last name first. It was just rather a horrible happenstance that he'd clicked Mycroft.

The man was horrid. How had Sherlock gotten to know John was in trouble? There were no telltale signs he'd been in danger anywhere but in the kitchen where he'd lain. Mycroft must have told him. Smiling, John found himself thinking the man maybe a little less horrid.

Sherlock came into the flat with a suitcase and a bag slung over his shoulder. He eyed John who dozed on the couch, face where Sherlock laid his own. The man looked downright adorable. Quietly, Sherlock put his things on the opposite side of the room and removed his bathroom items. Within the shower, he lathered his whole body in a thick layer of soap. He ran fingers through his wet hair, enjoying the feeling of the hot water coursing over his body like a rivers' current.

Sighing contentedly, he noted that John needed to be put to sleep in his own bed. This would be difficult to begin with, and impossible if John wouldn't wake up. There was a possibility Sherlock would sleep on the floor, which wasn't bad but John would be sore in the morning.

There was a soft, almost inaudible creak and Sherlock spun around, placing a hand on the wall of the bathroom to help steady himself. John stood, sleepy-eyed and confused in the doorway.

"John, go to sleep." Sherlock tried his best cooing voice but it just sounded gruff and demanding.

"I don't want to, Sherlock." John closed the door behind him and pressed a hand on the shower.

"Don't be ridiculous, John, you're tired. Do I need to accompany you?" The thought of standing naked in front of John was doing horrible things to Sherlock's body that the man didn't want John to see.

"If you want, yeah." John smiled, pulling the handle and letting his bare feet become splattered with run-off water.

"I don't see how this is good for you." Sherlock murmured when John removed the few clothing articles, continuing to effectively block Sherlock's escape route, and stepping into the shower as naked as Sherlock.

"Probably isn't." John agreed. He was staring very openly at Sherlock, but only his face. Sherlock got the distinct impression that it wasn't out of modesty, but trying to find out how far he could go. Unfortunately for either of them, Sherlock had been, up until a few moments ago, been suppressing the memories of their time spent together with heated breath and sweaty bodies.

John moved forward slowly and Sherlock reached up, shifting the shower head to cover just in front of him. He never paused to think of how inviting the warm water was, especially when it seemed to show John that Sherlock wanted him close. John did just that. Barely touching, John stood in front of Sherlock, the water hitting both of them.

"You never told me if I was anything to you." John mumbled, putting the flat of his palms on Sherlock's chest. There was a silent moment both men enjoyed the touch and rise and fall of his chest.

"Our relationship is complicated."

John sighed, rolled his eyes, and went forward that one inch. The heat of the water made it difficult to feel the length of Sherlock against his own but it was there and it felt like the most right thing in the world. There was a whisper of Sherlock's arms around him before they settled around his waist. It was a prompt that led John to press a gentle yet firm kiss on Sherlock's cheek, right where Sherlock had kissed him the night before.

"You were awake." Sherlock remarked with an almost upset timbre to his voice. John smiled fully.

"Always hate to be wrong, you." He mumbled into the flesh of Sherlock's jaw, but then paused when he realized Sherlock had gone stiff. He pulled back and looked at Sherlock's amazed face.

"What did you just say that for?"

"Because it's true. You can't stand to be wrong, you beat yourself up over it each time for days."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." John's eyes widened, realizing that he couldn't possibly know that about Sherlock from the few days they'd been together. "That was a memory."

"Good. That's a good sign. Your memories are not going to hide from me forever." Sherlock declared, grabbing John's face and planting a strong, dominant kiss upon his lips.

John was admittedly surprised, but only for a moment. He grabbed Sherlock upon the ribs, pulling him close and kissing him so thoroughly John was sure he'd pass out. The strong arms that wrapped around his body helped to ensure he wouldn't fall even if he became wobbly. Thankful for this, John shoved his tongue between the man's lips, drawing a low groan.

Sherlock took a step forward, pressing John against the glass wall of their shower. If he cared to look, he could have barely seen John's reflection in the steamy mirror: a perfect indent of a butt and shoulders.

The feeling of John pressed against him once more after so many years, so many letters, drove Sherlock to actually feel. Though he felt around John quiet a lot more than ever, this was actual downright lust. John reached past Sherlock, turning off the water. Both men stumbled a bit as they stepped out.

"We can't wet the carpet." Sherlock pointed out, grabbing a towel and very quickly drying himself. John did the same, but was much slower considering his injuries. Once Sherlock was done with himself, he helped John and then ushered him out the door and into the bedroom. Without further comment, they both laid down on the bed, snug under the covers.

There was a hesitant moment where John wasn't sure if the mood had died. He looked at Sherlock's face, gauging how the man was feeling but knew the likelihood of getting an answer was null.

A soft, questioning hand rose from the sheets and touched John's face. So, Sherlock was curious about this all as well.

"I didn't change my mind." John confessed and Sherlock slipped closer, leaving a trail of quick kisses over John's face, shoulders, neck, and finally his lips.

They didn't take their time with feeling one another. John tried to but Sherlock seemed almost viscious. He touched light, though, and didn't expect John to do much. It was almost as if Sherlock had been wanting to have this intimacy for a while. And John had a suspicion it was longer than the days they had spent, possibly years.

As Sherlock drove them both absolutely blind with passion, he never really fully touched John. When John was ready for anything to happen-anything-he moaned, "Sherlock," and ran his hand up the inside of Sherlock's thigh. Not stopping him, Sherlock let it happen and mimicked the actions of John's thigh.

Without words, Sherlock pushed John onto his back, swung a leg over and sat astride him. John smilled, lids halfway closed and eyes almost completely black, and put his hands on Sherlock's hips. In the moment, Sherlock grabbed John and positioned himself just right.

At the last second, John frowned. Sherlock stiffened, barely able to keep a tremor from his hands when he realized John might reject him still. The thought almost drove him from the bedroom without John saying a word.

"I feel like I've wanted to do this for years." He mumbled, his hands running up and down Sherlock's thighs. In astonishment, Sherlock realized John wasn't unsure about what they were doing, but rather how strong the desire was.


	7. Sexual ConflictsEpisode 1

Regardless of John's unsure feelings as to why he felt this way, and why it was so strong, he jumped readily into the motions and wordlessly took the reins.

Sherlock had liked the relationship they had had before, and desired wholeheartedly to have it back, but seeing John so full of lust and drinking it in without a second thought was a beautiful sight. Obviously, though, it meant things were wrong in John's head still. Sherlock, though, wasn't above taking a small bit advantage of the situation. When John's memories came back, the sex would be most likely what they used to have back in school. It would be nice to have this experience.

There was no question who was taking the lead, and there had not been from the beginning. John had been the more forceful of removing clothes, more urgent to get to the flesh underneath. Just like years before. There was a determination in John's eyes and Sherlock suddenly shoved the man away. Stunned, John stood with his head cocked, waiting for Sherlock to do something, anything.

In his mind, Sherlock saw them having rough sex that they hadn't had in years. In his mind as well, he knew John felt no attachment to what they were doing, what they had been about to do. And even though Sherlock was selfish enough to want this, desire this, he was smart enough to see the consequences.

If they had sex in this moment all pleasure will be had and Sherlock would have memories that didn't belong and John would possibly splatter the old, locked-away memories with this perverse moment. He may never remember the feelings they'd shared during the most intimate of moments. As well, the moment he received his memories again, it was likely he'd be hurt due to Sherlock "taking advantage" of the situation. Though Sherlock was nearly irritated at the idea that he would be considered "taking advantage" of John when the man was panting like a dog for sex.

There were many other tiny, nearly insignificant reasons that they not copulate, but the biggest one was John's memories and the possibility of slashing the previous moments of intimacy. Sherlock would rather never lay another hand upon John. The possibility was tiny, but it was there nonetheless and by being celibate for now it would create less pain later.

The most important part of all of this was John.

"I can't." Sherlock said into the dark, watching John nodded and back off. John turned and left the room, leaving his clothes scattered on the floor along with Sherlock's. There was a few moments where Sherlock felt an almost desperate need to chase after him and tell him what had just happened but he knew John may possibly try talking him out of it.

Quietly, he snatched up his clothes and took a very cold shower. Afterwards, he went and played the violin. John had been sitting on the couch when Sherlock had entered the living room, wearing pajamas, obviously changing while Sherlock showered.

"I don't remember you playing the violin so well. Rather, I believe you hated it." John murmured around his cup of tea. Sherlock stared at him, not willing to push the moment away. He struck a few more chords of a melody he'd been writing only a few days. John's eyes drifted closed. "Yes, you were dreadful to listen to before but now you're a wonder. What song is this?"

"I composed it myself. It's not finished."

"You didn't before."

"You've been away a long time." Sherlock murmured, his eyes watering from lack of blinking, as well as the strain of wishing that maybe, just maybe...

John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. There was mix of surprise as well as confusion.

"It's odd, remembering bits and pieces like this. I know you played, horribly at that, but I don't remember when I heard you. I don't remember how I know you never composed. It's like a jigsaw puzzle and every now and then I slip a piece into place."

"I understand." Sherlock breathed, seeing the moment gone. He'd have to call Mycroft tomorrow and report the moments John was remembering, seeing if there was a connection to what was making him remember.

They sat together for a while as Sherlock played, pausing to write every time he got what he wanted, and eventually John went to sleep. Sherlock lasted only another half hour, making sure John was asleep, before going up the stairs to the second bedroom. Completely uncharacteristically, he sat in silence and read the notebooks Felicia had given him.

**this next bit is from the first episode, obviously, but I tweaked a few places for reasons**

In the morning, Sherlock got an idea. He readied for the day and helped John do the same. Shortly after he knew a companion of his was at work, he started almost furiously texting. By the time John was sitting on the couch reading the news, Sherlock was hyper to get moving.

"I have an event planned."

"Okay."

"I would like you to come to work with me."

John furrowed his brow, getting ready to heavily protest when Sherlock threw a jumper and coat at the man.

"No time to argue, I have a new case. I'll explain on the way."

Over the rest of the week, John tailed Sherlock and watched in absolute wonder as the man worked out every tiny detail on a trail of dead bodies. He met the whole team Sherlock referred to as "Scotland Yard" where everyone seemed utterly rude to Sherlock. They were very surprised to see John following Sherlock, one of them stopping him and in fact telling them that Sherlock will one day be the killer.

John found out a lot about Sherlock, a lot of the tiny quirks of the man and grew to understand why the Yard didn't like him. But at the same time, he wasn't bothered by any of it. Sherlock was a full-grown man and used his talent to help, regardless of the fact that there didn't seem to be any sympathy for the dead or the scared victims. Not everyone was perfect and from what John could remember, Sherlock had always been different.

There were no memories or flashes of colors or feelings. There was just a knowing that Sherlock was always different. Had always been different.

But this Sally woman calling Sherlock a freak was not necessary. The Anderson fellow was, just the same, making John uncomfortable with the degree to which the man would go to shame Sherlock.

The week went generally smooth, Sherlock left him at a few crime scenes so John had to find a way home and once asked him to remain at a restaurant once while he chased a man in a cab. There were rare moments when John felt too exhausted to continue for a while, in which Sherlock spent a long time at the flat talking about the case with him.

As a drug bust that John was overly surprised at the fact that Sherlock didn't seem unused to, this largely hinting the man was a user, took hold in the flat, Sherlock suddenly found his answer.

While Lestrade continued his tirade, Sherlock left the flat. John received text alerts as to Sherlock's plan. Eventually it was noted that Sherlock had nothing to hide, especially since the flat was in John's name, and the team left. John almost immediately left once they had gone, going to the address Sherlock texted him.

Once there, he had a feeling that the timing was almost desperate. This was a killer, after all, who had Sherlock in his grips.

John saw the cab and slipped into the passenger side, looking anywhere and everywhere. He didn't think, barely stopped to register the familiar feeling that slipped through him the moment his fingers gripped a gun under the seat.

Adrenaline shot through him as he picked one of the two buildings at the address Sherlock had put. There was no number on each to distinguish which Sherlock may have been in. Unfortunately, as he entered one of the larger rooms, he saw light from the other building through the window. As he took a step into the room, he felt the adrenaline spike high and he could almost hear blood thrumming through his veins.

Without thinking, John rushed to the window and slid it open. He watched, knowing there was no time to run to the other building, and raised the gun. Training he didn't remember having took over and he leveled his aim. Steady arms lined up with the strange man that held his hand up, mimicking Sherlock. Danger, John's mind screamed.

Before either man could make a move, John took his shot. It hit the target, ripping through the strange mans chest. John didn't stay much longer, slipping the window down and wiping his prints from the sill. He didn't walk home, but rather waited for the cops.

Sherlock didn't rat him out, but it was obvious he knew who had shot the man Sherlock called cabbie. Laughing as if the best of friends, the two men walked most of the way home until John became too tired in which Sherlock paid for a cab. Sherlock needed time, the man said, now that the case was closed, to be alone.

John rolled into bed after a long shower and smiled into his pillow. There had not been a lot of memory-inducing moments the last week but he'd made a week worth of memories. Almost every one of them had been with Sherlock and the man was, dare John say "wonderful?"


	8. Bad Dreams

Awakening hours later, John felt very refreshed. As refreshed as a man could be given the emotional, physical, and mental stress he'd been going through the last month. He took a shower, being careful at the exertion he put out, and went to the kitchen for breakfast. Sherlock was standing with nothing but a blue silk robe draped over his shoulders, the front not even attempted at being tied.

John frowned as he noticed Sherlock's eyes were a very brilliant color mix of green and blue. The round orbs seemed to beckon to him, calling him closer. Without realizing it, John had gone halfway into the room before he came up short, remembering that Sherlock had pushed him away last time.

"I made a mistake, John," Sherlock purred so softly John was unsure how he'd heard it so loud. His voice seemed to have come from right next to his ear. Fingers that held a cup straightened, glass shattering all over the floor. John couldn't take his eyes from Sherlock.

The red eyes that looked at him were confusing. Had they always been so red? John couldn't remember, couldn't think straight. Sherlock was taking a slow step forward, his leg snapping and bending into what almost looked like that of a wolves. As his foot touched the ground, fur shot up and covered the whole leg. His back leg lifted up, the same transformation taking place.

John couldn't move, stiff as a board. Long hair sprouted from all over Sherlock, crawling like bugs, his body lengthening and his face stretching to accommodate long canines.

"I will destroy you!" Sherlock growled out, vibrating all of the room as well as John's insides. Glass shattered from the cupboards and the windows shattered. John fell backward, feeling the floor come crashing up to meet him. Sherlock jumped on him, claws tearing his chest and teeth sinking into his neck.

John shot awake, a scream ripping from his lips. He was tangled around the hips by his bed sheets, sweat drenching his body. There were slamming feet and crashes to be heard before Sherlock threw the door open and slapped the switch on. He stared, chest heaving, at the sight of John.

"I'm...I'm okay. Just a bad dream." John forced out with a dry throat. He couldn't get the dream out of his mind. He couldn't look in Sherlock's eyes in fear they were red.

"Do you remember what it was?"

"No." John lied, lying back down in hope Sherlock wouldn't see through it. After a few moments Sherlock turned the light off and closed the door. John heard the soft steps recede and go up the stairs as Sherlock went back to bed.

John closed his eyes, breathing heavy, as he realized that it was not the first time he'd dreamed a dream like that. As well, he knew that Sherlock was not going to sleep, had not been asleep.

John held back a sob through a smile as he had a moment of clarity, realizing that his memories were coming back, and would hopefully continue to do so.

The question John had, though, was why did he dream, and had done so before, of Sherlock turning into a wolf and killing him?

There were few times that Sherlock could describe himself as being uncomfortable. Today was one of them.

John was shying from him during breakfast, even though Sherlock had made the tea and even went out to buy biscuits that John agreed were a good idea. Through lunch-Sherlock's treat at the restaurant two blocks over-John barely spoke a dozen words. On the walk back-John's idea-there was almost no contact of any kind between the two.

Sherlock knew, and remembered well, that John had reacted well to the case they'd just finished. Maybe, though, the man was going through some traumatic issues. He had killed a man. Even though he'd played it off the night before, Sherlock knew that every other person tore themselves to pieces over guilt and such.

Maybe Mycroft needed to be contacted once more. Last time, no one had been able to come to a conclusion as to any trigger John had for his memories. Felicia was notified of the dates and the general size of the memory. Mycroft urged Sherlock to not be himself as much as possible.

Sherlock was not only worried about the memories John may have had the last ten hours, but what the memory of committing a murder may do to the memories from before. It was at this moment Sherlock realized he had no idea if John had ever killed a man before and if maybe there was a possibility of PTSD having arisen from surfacing memories.

Home, no headway in their conversation having happened, Sherlock told John he was going out for a bit and text if desired. The man barely nodded as he disappeared into his room.

Sherlock contacted Mycroft on his way to the office and by the time the cab pulled to the curb, there was a man waiting to take Sherlock to his brother.

"You sounded very urgent."

"I solved the case." Sherlock blurted, unsure for the first time in his life how to explain what he was thinking, feeling. Mycroft caught this information and his eyebrows rose high in surprise. Sherlock sat heavily in one of the chairs and Mycroft, choosing the smart route, stayed quiet until his younger brother composed his words.

"I figured out the killer and every other piece but the pill. But. John killed him. I was about to make a choice and John shot him. He was gone and cleaned up after himself by the time Lestrade showed up."

"He killed your killer."

"He hasn't spoken to me much since. I believe it's possible the murder awakened memories from his time in Afghanistan. PTSD is a possibility if he killed others. Even doctors had to fight."

"Yes. Unless he talks to you there is no way to tell what's going on."

"He won't talk to me."

"I'll send someone. See if they can do better."

Sherlock bristled at the mention that he was not doing enough for John, but kept his mouth shut. In a few hours, there may be more answers than they had now, and getting back at Mycroft wasn't worth it.

Left alone in Mycroft's office, one of many, Sherlock found himself fiddling with random objects arrayed the room. He avoided his phone knowing John may send texts in question over the person bound to bother him. Sherlock was unsure how he would respond so he kept himself away from the problem.

Mycroft appeared shortly after the second hour passed, entering with a frown. Sherlock said nothing as he watched his brother sit behind the desk. Sherlock leveled a glare at his older brother as the seconds ticked by. Not willing to lose whatever game Mycroft was playing, Sherlock sat down and remained silent, face sticking in a glare.

After long minutes, Mycroft took a deep breath. "I sent a woman over. John turned her away without any trouble. He was, I quote, 'a wonderful gentlemen that seemed as if nothing were wrong.' So I sent another and she was turned down the same." Mycroft bore his eyes into Sherlock's. "Dear brother, I would say you are the problem."

Sherlock leaned back, a sudden and sharp pain clenched in his chest. Mycroft looked at him with a half detached and half amused look. There are rare moments when Sherlock actually considering using violence to get his point across, and just now he'd love to knock the stupid smirk off of his brothers face. Knowing it would only satisfy some sickness in his brother was the only thing that stopped him from doing so.

"I would suggest you make the decision if you can live with his silence. John is going to be a different man than you knew before."

"I know."

"Then get that hope out of you, dear brother. It's unnerving."

Without responding, Sherlock rose from the chair and left for the flat. His brother would be no help, was less help than the notebooks Felicia gave him. In the cab on the way, Sherlock stared at his phone and eventually turned it on. Three texts and two calls all from John.

_There's a woman dressed up asking about the war?_ JW

_Two, really?_ JW

_I don't even remember the war. Amnesia._ JW

Neither call left a voice-mail, John was aware Sherlock didn't care much for checking them. The last anything was almost forty minutes ago.

_On my way._ SH

When Sherlock walked into the flat, he expected anger or confusion, a few different types of mixes between the two. What he didn't expect was John sitting on the couch in front of the laptop, clicking away, and acting as if nothing had happened.

Instead of taking the same route and acting like it was any other day, Sherlock took off his coat and scarf and stood five feet away. Eventually, John looked up.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You haven't talked about the man you killed."

"There's nothing to talk about. You could think that it was horrible, and in a way it was but I look at it as your life or his. I felt you were more worth saving. My inactivity in the situation would have led to your death and inadvertently I would have felt guilty about it my whole life. I wouldn't be okay had I let you die. I can live with having saved you."

Sherlock stared John down, the two men holding eye contact almost painfully. To his mind arose the night he'd pushed John away. The taste of the mans' lips a sweet memory.

"No war memories."

"None, really. Memories of dryness from the desert, feeling of blood on my fingers and hands. But they told me I was a medic."

"Yes."

"I went to med school and I don't remember any of it." John sighed deeply, moving his laptop onto the coffee table and stood. "I want to visit your flat." At the expression Sherlock gave him, astounded and confused, John cleared his throat. "It might help me remember. You said we were friends. Maybe something will trigger."

After a few quick seconds of thought, Sherlock realized it was a wonderful idea. It's not like Lestrade made him touchy having people over. The Scotland Yard wasn't filled with people that friendly.

"Okay. Tomorrow in the morning."

"If you don't get a case." John pointed out and Sherlock split into a huge grin.

"Of course."

Sherlock reached forward, touching John's shoulder. For a small second Sherlock wanted nothing more than to press his lips against John's. Before he was able to voice or act upon this desire, John sat back down and pulled his laptop back into place, already acting as if Sherlock were not there.


	9. Letters

Lestrade didn't call or text Sherlock at all. In the morning, out of curiosity Sherlock texted with "?" and got a simple, "no," back. Knowing he was free from any case, Sherlock encouraged John to do breakfast tea and get ready. Like normal, John was distant. Putting it on a shelf in his Mind Palace, Sherlock made a note to use the ride to try getting John to talk.

"You may be okay with having killed a man to save me," Sherlock stated softly as they were on their way. John seemed irate at realizing he'd been put into a corner the moment the cab was off and Sherlock's mouth opened. Out of him came a deep sigh.

"Yes. We've been over this."

"Not that you've distanced since then."

"Distanced? I'm fine, Sherlock."

"You can't lie to a consulting detective."

"You're the only consulting detective, ever."

"Exactly."

John huffed with exaggeration but Sherlock wasn't finished yet. Sherlock continued to stare at John until the man either relented or they showed up at the flat.

"I am not treating you differently, Sherlock. I don't even know how I used to treat you."

"Ever since you shot the cabbie you've looked at me from a distance. You never acted that way even before the memory loss."

John finally turned to Sherlock and looked at him. Knowing that tons of things were going through John's head, Sherlock kept quiet and let the man do his own thinking.

switching to John's perspective.

He knew nothing should have changed between them, but John couldn't get the dream from his head. Was it a warning from his past? Looking at Sherlock, thinking about the stuff he'd learned about the man both new and old. Nothing seemed to connect to the dream in any way, at least not from Sherlock himself. Sally and Anderson seem to believe him a freak. A fanged wolf monster wouldn't be too long of a throw for them.

Relieving the idea of Sherlock with fangs from his third eye, John sighed deep and looked out the window. There was a sharp, frustrated sigh from behind him and John felt bad. To be honest, John knew he owed Sherlock for all the man had done since John first saw him at the hospital. Yet, regardless of feeling the ties that bound them from youth but not in memory, John had a voice in his head that told him not to ignore the dream. It meant something.

As the cab pulled up to the curb of a respectable looking building, John heard Sherlock practically start fuming. John was surprised the man wasn't showing anger in his face as they exited and walked up the front steps. Sherlock pulled out a key and opened the flat. He ushered John first, who ducked in and to the side, eyeing the place.

Absolutely nothing looked right about the room. At first glance, it would seem it were a living room but then with the books crowding nearly every surface it was easy to believe it was a study. Papers, newspaper clippings, notes, and sticky notes littered one of the walls, each piece stuck with a tack against the wall. The couch as well as the chair were both littered with books or papers. Given what John had witnessed during their case, he figured everything on the wall was about a case he hadn't cleaned up yet, or hadn't solved yet. It was hard to tell which likelihood was more plausible.

John moved farther into the mess, which was more of organized chaos than anything, and turned to look at Sherlock. He'd have smiled at the man, handsome as anyone he'd ever seen, but the flash of color in his eyes reminded John of the nightmare and his smile vanished. The stiff way Sherlock stood, his sharp eyes locked on John, it showed he knew John's mood had gone back down even after that split second. What John was certain of was that Sherlock didn't know why. It was possible Sherlock believed John's war memories came back and he had PTSD or some such thing.

Doing his best to ignore Sherlock's facial expressions and general vibe, John wandered the apartment, all of which was tidy, but in a chaotic way. Even after a few minutes of fiddling with things, making sure they were placed back exactly the way they had been, John started to see it. Every piece had a purpose, every paper was important to the books it lay among, every clipping of a paper or magazine belonged exactly where it was.

While John was doing all of this, Sherlock was making tea in the kitchen, which was filled with more science and body parts than a morgue. John stayed out of the kitchen.

It was only a matter of time, and rather quiet a surprise, when John stumbled through one room into another that so happened to have a bed. This room was considerably less clustered, though each room was easy to move around in, and a large globe sat in the far corner of the room. The bed, covered in black sheets and neatly made, had not a single paper or book, or even tool upon it.

Smiling, John strode over and touched the sheet gently. It gave way easily suggesting it was down feather. Out of curiosity, he knelt down, stifling a groan from his shoulder as he leaned over and pulled up the sheets. Underneath the bed, as mess-free as the top of the bed, hid only a few items. John frowned and pulled out what looked to be like a shoe box. Behind that were two more of the same size.

Sitting with his back against the bed, John opened the first box and froze immediately. Wrapped in rubber bands were envelopes with neatly scrawled handwriting. Each "from" section on the letters had his name on it and the area he apparently was stationed. Each "to" section was Sherlock. Every single one in the groups tied by rubber bands had been opened carefully and each one still had the paper inside of it. John undid a package, all seemed to be dated the same month, same year.

Curiously, each rubber band held what seemed to be a month worth of letters each. From the group he'd freed, John saw them all dated from June. He opened the earliest one in the year and carefully unfolded the paper. It was creased heavily like the letter had been opened and closed many, many times.

As John read it, his eyes got blurry, watery, and a few tears rolled down his face. The letter didn't contain much but there was obvious feeling in the words written to Sherlock. John pulled out another from the same month and there was a good chunk of the letter surrounding in how he missed Sherlock so painfully, how he still loved him. The letter got very personal about the physical aspects of the relationship there was no question the two had.

After reading the second one, John put them back carefully in place and looked through the other boxes. All three were the same. He found the first set of messages and his hands shook as he took off the rubber band. The absolute first letter Sherlock had kept, possibly the first sent, sat in his fingers.

"I kept every single one." A soft, deep voice rang out and John turned to the doorway. Thankfully his eyes had dried after the shock of emotion that rang so true down inside his soul.

"From when?"

"After you left me. For your doctor degree." There was a pause.

"There's at least a hundred."

"You had much to say." Sherlock came forward and placed the teacup next to John on the bedside table. "Stay as long as you want, read all of them if you wish. I will wait for you." With that, John was left alone.

For the next few hours he carefully handled each letter, seeing each hopefull and happy word play across the page. And the farther he read, the more space inside his brain filled. There was very little information about what happened during specifics in John's days, but John found himself remembering large chunks. Aching muscles, dirty sand everywhere in the clothes, the locals speaking in what sounded like gibberish. There were a lot of memories.

Of Sherlock.

After the last letter was placed carefully back in place and the shoeboxes put correctly back, John stood and walked to Sherlock who had moved the things off the couch and was sitting patiently. From the look upon John's face he must have known something was up. The man, skiny and tall with more than a hint of sexuality, stood quickly and took a step forward. Before he could get much farther, John was pushing him onto the bed. The monster in his nightmare was gone, replaced only by the memories of everything they'd ever done together.

Without a word shared between each other, their clothes were ripped off, buttons spraying over the whole flat. Their breathing, becoming labored quicker than John could push the taller man to the couch. Kisses trailed down Sherlock's chest, the man bucking and groaning against John. Lower John went, surrounding himself in the smell of Sherlock's musk. The first taste of Sherlock's salty length, just the tip, sent both men into a groan. Long fingers dug into John's hair and shoulder.

The deeper he brought Sherlock into his mouth, the more tense the muscles in his legs became. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and held him close, taking him all the way to the back of his throat again and again.

"John..." Sherlock breathed, solidifying John's erection almost painfully. With a soft "pop" noise, John pulled his head all the way back and pushed Sherlock over and onto his back. Sherlock gasped when John took hold of the bottom of his thighs and hoisted his legs up and around his hips as he slid onto the couch.

After positioning himself, John looked down at Sherlock. The man's pupils were so large he couldn't see the dazzling hues of blue and green. His lips were parted in anticipation. This was nothing like the time they'd clumsily undressed in the heat of the moment after John had finally come home. Sherlock obviously could feel the memories John now had. Both men wanted this, craved this as if they didn't think they'd ever have this again.

John pushed himself slowly into Sherlock, letting them both adjust to the feeling. It had been so long since John had copulated. He'd been smitten with Sherlock and hadn't taken a lover since. There was always hope that one day Sherlock would write an actual letter instead of sending a monotone notice as to change of address.

Once all the way in, John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock length, gaining a long and pleased groan from the detective.

"Aahhh."

John pulled in and out slowly, at first, and then attempted a rhythm. Both men rocked their hips gently against each other. Sherlock's hands roamed John's body, anywhere they could reach, memorizing each curve he'd known so well as a teenager.

switch to Sherlock's POV

John felt absolutely amazing. The strength the man had was hidden behind his soft demeanor. There was absolutely no way Sherlock could have imagined his John growing from football jock into a doctor so strong he could probably lift Sherlock off the couch. With each thrust, the man lifted Sherlock's hips about three to four inches. The pleasure after so long, after having wet dreams and steamy showers alone, was blurring his vision.

There was no words to describe how happy he was he had stopped their heated quickie in the bedroom. He had been correct that having done it without John's memory, the way he knew Sherlock's body, would have ruined this moment right here. John held Sherlock's hips and erection just the way he loved it.

He hadn't realized exactly how much he missed John.

Sherlock groaned, wrapping his long and thin thighs around John's hips. He helped pull and push the man into a faster, crazier rhythm. The sounds of John's effort to bring as much pleasure as possible nearly drove the detective to the edge.

"Fuck, Sherlock!" John groaned, leaning down and pressing his forehead against Sherlock's. Their breath mingled in each others' faces as they touched one another everywhere. As the motions sped up and John's hand around Sherlock's length quickened, Sherlock found himself practically gasping. His fingers dug into John's flesh.

"John," he murmured over and over. "John, John, John." Sherlock felt the strong, hard pulse as John finally reached his orgasm, a guttural moan ripping through his lips. Sherlock stared into John's face as he came a second later, the pleasure practically shattering his body. He felt shakes run as deep as his bones the moment his orgasm started fading. It was better than their passionate boyhoods, stolen in the hot shower room or in quick, needy corners of the town. Sherlock would not ever deny seeing white at the corner of his eyes.

"I like my apartment." John murmured, their foreheads resting against each other.

"Mycroft can get my stuff moved in over the weekend."

John kissed Sherlock on the mouth and situated himself into cuddling the man. Sherlock wasn't one for physical touch, especially now that he was older, but he hated the thought of John's warmth disappearing.

"How much memory is there?"

"I'm pretty sure it's everything."

Sherlock paused a few minutes before swallowing hard. There was a lot of time in the war John had, not to mention the whole time before that when Sherlock wasn't around. "Is there anything you need to talk about?"

"No." He breathed, letting Sherlock relax. John ran a finger across Sherlock's lips. "Just move into Baker Street."


End file.
